Everything Else is Transport
by Epimeliad
Summary: Living with a man who considers sleep and food 'transport' for his brain is bound to cause some problems. John's trying to handle being friends with a sociopath, who in turn is trying to handle boredom. Without a pressing enough case, Sherlock strikes up a case of his own. Rated for language and non-angsty drug-use. More drama than mystery in later chapters. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

**Everything Else is Transport**

**Chapter 1**

It was a windy, rainy sort of day in the middle of September, which felt a lot more like the end of October than anything. It was cold, and the rain passed the windows of 221 B Baker Street in horizontal bursts. John Watson leaned his forehead against the cold windowpane, looking up and down the street at the few people who were braving the weather, armed with umbrellas and ponchos.

"No one will come today."

John didn't look up. "They might."

"Or," Sherlock protested blandly, "they might not."

The kettle in the kitchen was just coming to the boil, so John tore himself away from the window. Sherlock was sitting perched in his chair, in an awkward squatting position that could not have been very comfortable after a while. He had, however, stayed in the same position for the last four hours, without even shifting his weight. Maybe he was stuck, John mused as he strode past and into the kitchen.

It was for once scrupulously clean, surgically clean in fact. There was not a single thing out on the table, the worktops, and even the stove was scrubbed clean. At first, the change had been a pleasant one, when John had stumbled in earlier that morning, but it was slowly starting to get on his nerves. He had had to dig the kettle out of the wardrobe, and found the tea in one of the slippers Sherlock usually kept stuffed with stale tobacco. That Sherlock was the one to have done this was clear, though not at first glance. As a practice of deduction, John had ruled Mrs Hudson out as the culprit, as whenever she cleaned for them (which was rarely) she always used cleaning products with a wide variety of chemically produced scents, and always left some sort of heart-warming decoration on the table, like a doily, a nice sugar bowl or just a flower in a tea-cup. No, this had Sherlock written all over it. The total odourlessness of the room has troubling, to say the least; it was reminiscent of an operating room, or a laboratory. That he had started to think like Sherlock, or how he imagined he might think, was at least equally troubling.

From the start of the morning, when he had first noted this bizarre change in housekeeping habits, John had decided that he would not, under any circumstance ask why, because he had a very distinct feeling that not only was the answer going to be unhelpful, it was also most likely going to be both insulting and only lead to more questions he wasn't really sure he wanted to either ask or know the answer to. However, as all the contents of the kitchen, including the lab equipment, had instead been placed seemingly at random in the apartment to the point where the only free surface was the one Sherlock had claimed for his perch, the curiosity was gnawing with increasing force.

"Did you do all of this last night?" he blurted out before he managed to stop himself. He braced himself for the answer by putting his mug down on the worktop and gripping the edge of it.

"I did. What, don't you like it?"

Well, two out of three wasn't bad. It was both unhelpful and only invited more questions. Insulting couldn't be far behind then.

"No, no, I like drinking tea I found in your slipper from a mug I found in the bathtub. Thank you, I guess."

"I didn't do it for you," said Sherlock quickly, clearly wanting John to continue asking so that he would be able to explain all the fantastic reasoning that lay behind the midnight cleaning-fit. John was too familiar with the pattern to actually fall into the trap once again; it only ever ended with him telling Sherlock how amazing and brilliant he was without knowing exactly how they got there. The gnawing curiosity only got stronger, though.

"I'm not going to ask you why you did it, you know."

"No, why would you?" asked Sherlock with a voice that he implied both that he thought that it was obvious beyond words, and that he knew that John didn't think it was obvious at all. It was not a rhetorical question, and even though John couldn't see Sherlock, he was certain that he was expected to respond.

"You are preparing… for… for a…" John started, trying to make it up as he went along, but found that he only made himself look like a bigger prat than if he had gone along with Sherlock's planned scenario from the beginning. He could almost hear the patronising, smug smile through the wall. "Did you do this just to mess with me, or did you have an actual purpose? Fuck."

He had cracked; he had walked straight into the trap that had been so obviously laid out. He was a weak man, and he felt even weaker as he automatically filled a cup for Sherlock and went to give it to him. He still hadn't moved, but nodded towards a foot-tall pile of papers on the small table next to the chair. John made a start to remove the papers, only to be forcefully thrown to the floor before his fingers touched the papers. The tea went flying out of his hands. Gasping for breath, he tried to clear his head, but only managed to splutter and gasp, as the pressure didn't ease from his chest. Sherlock had sprung like some kind of predator from the chair, catching John completely unaware and now held him put with a knee hard in the chest, effectively keeping him from regaining his breath.

"Are you high?" John coughed in exasperation and panic. It had been a purely rhetorical question.

"No. Good idea though," Sherlock said and smiled the kind of smile that made John wince at the prospect of some new hell he would be put through. He did however get up and let John get back up into a sitting position. He started towards the bookcase, for an expensive-looking leather case the size of a book.

"It wasn't a suggestion," John groaned in a tetchy voice, as the case was zipped open.

Sherlock's cocaine use was an annoying habit John had learnt to tolerate if not accept. What bothered him the most wasn't the abuse of narcotics, which he actually didn't mind that much, but how awfully cavalier he was about it. It was bothering him that Sherlock's inclination to cocaine wasn't a dependency, which would have been easier both to condemn and condone, but just something he did, like biting his nails. The only thing more provoking than a man who claimed to stand above trivialities like addiction was someone who actually _did_. While the drug-use certainly came and went depending on cases and workload, those slumps of tedium could often last for several months, at which time he sometimes would inject (in the case of cocaine, which was by far the most usual) up to three times a day, always the same dosage. Then an interesting case would invariably turn up, and he went off the drugs completely without showing any signs of withdrawal. This also happened when Mycroft did his occasional drug raid, and the lack of withdrawal-related symptoms concerned John almost more as a medical man than as a friend.

"The brain is like a muscle, if it is not flexed it will atrophy," Sherlock explained as he very calmly spread the leather case open on the large stack of paper. He had obviously seen John's disapproving glares, since he had done no effort to disguise them.

"Yeah, we both know that's not true. And the brain isn't a muscle," John grunted and got to his feet, still a bit shaky.

"I didn't say that the brain is a muscle, I said the brain was _like_ a muscle."

"Which isn't true either."

"Would you like some?" he asked in the voice of someone who offered a cup of tea.

"No. Thank you," John added gruffly and ran his fingers through his hair.

John had always thought himself a man of integrity, and was very rarely swayed by peer pressure, but watching Sherlock assemble his kit, filling the syringe with the pre-made solution (he never made the solution before using) with the same calm domestic attitude as he did when sorting through bills made him feel like a younger brother who desperately wanted to do whatever his older brother did, just because he did it. He wanted to be as strong, as certain on his character, as to know that he wouldn't become addicted. Damn it. He kicked himself mentally as the medically trained side of him tried to reasonably explain that addiction had nothing to do with strength of character. But it _had_ to come down to will power in the end, didn't it? How else could he just breeze through?

"Your loss," Sherlock muttered. He rolled up his sleeve, and strapped on a tourniquet he had clearly stolen from St. Bart's, and made yet another track mark with the same detached focus as John when administering a vaccine shot.

John reached for his tea, to have something to hide behind as he glanced at Sherlock with the needle. Sadly, the mug was shattered on the floor by the fireplace from the tackle.

He wanted to turn away, but as a medical man he found the following oddly fascinating. Sherlock removed the tourniquet with the ease of a man untying his shoes, flexed his arm to encourage the blood to circulate. As the cocaine worked its way through his system, he took a deep breath and let it out between his teeth. Then he hopped up, packed up the kit, zipped the case up and put it back in the shelf, next to a leather-bound copy of _The Sorrows of Young Werther_.

"So what should we do today?" he asked as he put the needle in the HAZMAT bin in the kitchen, which was kept next to the recycling.

It was as though nothing had happened. He was just normal. Well, as normal as Sherlock ever was. The word _freak_ inadvertently popped into his head. There was no way he could be normal, could it, if there was no difference between him sober and all… coked up? John had seen people, and good people at that, ruin their lives trying to handle a habit Sherlock considered 'a bit of mental stimulation'.

"I can't believe that people do this for fun," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly feeling the full effects of the drug. "What must their normal state of mind be?"

"Not a very nice state of mind at all, I would imagine," John answered coolly.

Sherlock shrugged non-committally. "Let's go out."

"No, it's freezing out there."

"We won't stay outside."

"Yes, I know, but we'll end up at a train station, and I'll be bored."

"_You_'ll be bored?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. "I think there might be some cocaine left, if you'd care to help yourself to some."

"That's not what I meant."

"I find that narcotics provide a perfectly adequate relief from boredom."

"Well, I don't." John folded his arms.

"I said adequate, not acceptable."

"Either way."

"I might have some morphine as well, somewhere…"

"I don't want any drugs. Of any kind."

"Then stop whinging and get your coat. We're going to Victoria Station."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

For someone who hated the underground as much as Sherlock Holmes, he did seem to have a peculiar affection for train stations. Airports, he hated, he was very clear about that. As John watched him watch the people moving around them, he was reminded of one uncharacteristically philosophical remark from the other week, when it had been King's Cross instead: that one could observe everything one needed to know about human nature in a train station. Exactly what Sherlock found so engrossing about mass transportation, John couldn't really appreciate.

The pattern was invariably the same, no matter the station. Sherlock would make a deduction, John would marvel, Sherlock would elaborate and then encourage John to try, John would try and fail miserably. John sighed and stretched his legs. Sherlock was undoubtedly the most brilliant man he had ever met in his life, but he was also among the most vain. Sherlock thrived on compliments of his intellectual prowess. In this way Sherlock reminded John of a teenage girl, or at least based on John's very limited experience of teenage girls, who could never hear enough times that she was pretty. Sherlock received the same satisfaction from being admired by John. For someone who thought their observations were 'ordinary', 'obvious', 'rudimentary' and 'elementary', Sherlock was very responsive to flattery of said observations.

"You think my deductions are less impressive when I do drugs," he said calmly after pointing out that the man who was _obviously_ heading to Sheffield had just boarded the train to Dover by accident.

"Yes," answered John honestly. There was no other way to answer Sherlock.

"Even though you can't tell when I'm actually using."

John stopped looking at the rather pretty woman who was dragging a petulant child behind her. He turned to Sherlock, who almost looked a bit hurt.

"I've been conducting an experiment," he began to explain before John had had a chance to ask. "Through a series of placebo tests for reference, I know that you don't actually notice a difference in my behaviour, leading me to the conclusion that your problem is not with the actual practicalities of my drug habit, but rather with your own ideas of chemical dependency. This is most likely due to your sister's drinking, or even more probably from one of your parents' drinking, your father's being statistically more likely, since many, if not most alcoholics come from a line of similar dependencies. Whether that is due to nature or nurture I will leave unsaid. So please don't project your own insecurities about drinking and drugs on me."

"So you mean you're sober right now?" John asked stupefied. For some reason he felt ever so slightly insulted by being treated like a test subject like this. Also, he had thought that he by now knew Sherlock well enough to at least detect a minimal difference, but apparently he didn't.

"What if I was?"

"That was amazing…" John conceded, as usual. "Are you sober, though?"

"High as a kite. It does not, however, in any way diminish my capabilities and I should be insulted that you would even imply it."

"So you _can _be insulted, then?" John huffed.

"Of course not. I stand far above such trivial emotional responses. I said I _should_ be insulted. Just because I'm not, doesn't mean I don't know when I should be."

John looked up at him and got a smirk that he couldn't resist returning. Before he knew it, they were both sniggering.

"Ah…" he sighed. It felt good to laugh. "So what are we actually doing here?"

"Observing. And preventing muggings."

"We are?"

"Four of them, this far. Over there, next to the luggage storage, is a blind spot for the cameras, something any street thug must have figured out by now. So by deducting which of the people passing are pickpockets, I know whom to watch intently until they see me watching, which is usually enough of a deterrent to send them scarpering."

"Sounds a bit, menial, don't you think?" John said, genuinely surprised. This sort of philanthropy was usually not displayed by anyone with an antisocial personality disorder. "Stopping pickpockets from bothering tourists?"

"Yes, and picking up a trick or two." He dropped John's wallet back into his lap. "It continues to surprise me how inventive and creative the criminal classes can be when it come to getting their hands on someone's money."

"How did you do that?" John gasped and looked through the wallet to make sure everything was there. "I've had my hands in my pockets the whole time!"

"No, you haven't," said Sherlock, clearly signalling the end of that conversation.

"Please don't pick my pockets," John sighed and made sure to put it in the inner pocket of his coat this time.

"Noted."

"So what now?" John asked and turned to watch the crowd again.

"We're going home. Something might have happened."

This sort of optimism was unusual. It felt best to encourage it. "It might have."

"But it hasn't. And I'm growing bored again."

Sherlock got up and quickly strode away towards the exit. John hurried up and had to run a few steps to catch up to him. "So we're going home so that you can shoot up again?"

"Shoot up?" Sherlock snorted. "What a terribly urban vocabulary, John."

* * *

**A/N**

A short chapter in return for frequent updates! Also, I live for reviews, so feel free to share both comments and criticism; feedback is always a good thing!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N  
**I got very bored with the case-fic I began, it didn't turn out at all the way I wanted it to. So I decided to scrap it. Sorry. This is a bit of a reboot, it picks up at the same place as the last chapter 3, but takes a completely different turn.

**Chapter 3**

At home, the suspicions of further boredom were confirmed. John pottered around to make tea, and Sherlock had another hit of cocaine. After clearing the mess around the table and on the chair, John took a seat in front of the computer and considered opening another document for the blog. But when inspiration failed to strike, he found himself just looking at Sherlock, who was stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, thinking intently by the look of it. John had a bad feeling about this. If a case didn't turn up within a few hours, Sherlock would begin to spiral, and he knew from experience that it wasn't a pretty sight. The man constantly walked at the thin line bordering boredom – a condition he couldn't handle – and whenever he fell down the wrong side, John had to pick up the pieces. But at the moment, Sherlock had locked himself into his 'mind palace', and seemed to be perfectly content. John leaned back. As long as he stuck to the cocaine there wasn't reason to worry; he knew, however, that if he started with the morphine, he would have to device something.

"What are you writing?" asked Sherlock, several hours later. It was dark out. In that time John had started to tidy up a bit, moved most of the chemistry kit back into the kitchen, gone to the shops, made himself a sandwich, and sat back down at the computer. He was already halfway through a blog post when Sherlock moved for the first time in (he checked the clock at the corner of the computer) five hours.

"My blog," John answered calmly.

"Well, it's not exactly _your_ blog, now is it?"

Hmm, he was snippy. This did not bode well. He counted to ten.

"It actually is my blog, Sherlock. You have your own blog. It's about perfumes, cigarette ashes and different kinds of clay, remember? It's the one without any readers."

"The number of readers doesn't come in to it. Your blog is about me, which I think sort of devalues it as _your_ blog."

"Did you wake up to actually say something, or are you just going to nag me?" John did not feel up for the usual games, he was desperately trying to steel himself against what he knew was coming. He was trying to detach himself as much as possible, because the usual stages of Sherlock spiralling caused him a lot of suffering, and he did not want to be dragged down by him again, not this time.

"What are you writing?" Sherlock asked again.

John took a deep breath and counted to ten. Again.

"I'm writing about that judge's son, the one that –"

Sherlock sat up. "I didn't like that one. It wasn't neat."

"Oh, so now I'm only supposed to write about the neat cases? You've already told me not to write about the unsolved ones, so I don't. You've told me to change all the names, so I do. You've told me to leave out your gratuitous drug-use, so I do. Now you tell me to only write about the cases you think were cleared up in a neat enough fashion?" Maybe he didn't need to distance himself, maybe this time it would feel good to watch the bastard suffer for a bit.

"Yes." He turned to look at John and added begrudgingly. "Please."

For the third time in less than five minutes, John had to count to ten. He then bit his tongue, and pressed down the command key and 'A'. Looking over the screen at Sherlock, he pressed 'delete'.

"There. Gone. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

There was a silence where John wanted to start screaming profanities, but didn't. Sherlock got up and walked slowly across the room.

"You going to bed?" John asked, hopefully.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied with that god-awful supercilious smile of his. John had to struggle to keep himself from running over to him and punch that smile off of his face. "I'm going out."

John didn't even bother to ask where. It was half past nine at night, and wherever he was going wasn't bound to be bad. He got up and reached for his coat.

"Alone," Sherlock added coldly.

John didn't say anything. It hurt, not being allowed to come along, but just in the same way as stubbing a toe on a piece of furniture that had been in the same place for years. It hurt, but half of the pain was in the fact that you had been stupid enough to think yourself on top of the situation.

As he watched Sherlock cross Baker Street from the window, he got a sudden jolt of curiosity and wondered briefly if he should follow him. The urge got to the point where he was just about to turn on his heel and grab his jacket, but decided against it. He wasn't a lost puppy; he was a grown man. He couldn't go chasing Sherlock's coat tails whenever he went out of view. It was just that… He sighed and leaned his forehead against the windowpane. It was just that if Sherlock had indeed begun to spiral down again, he wanted to be there. He wanted to, if not stop it, then at least to observe it, it feel as though he at least could steer it in the right direction. He could let Sherlock spiral out of control only if he knew that he was in control instead. If Sherlock wasn't there, didn't display the signs John had gotten so used to reading, he couldn't do anything. But so what was this? Maybe he wasn't spiralling? Maybe he was actually just going out? Sherlock always had had odd habits; it shouldn't come as a surprise. This wasn't the usual pattern. John knew the pattern.

With that, he decided that he wasn't going to worry, he was going to have a cup of tea, and then go to bed.

The plan of not worrying didn't turn out as he had planned. At three in the morning, he had his eighth cup of tea and sat back down in his chair. First, he had been watching a film, and when it ended he told himself that he just wanted to see what came next. He then told himself he was just going to watch that. And then what came after that, and after that. He had not changed the channel during the entire evening, and was now watching infomercials. In the beginning he had been able to fool himself that he wasn't waiting up at all, no, he was just watching telly. As the loop of infomercials started its fourth repeat, this lie was becoming harder to tell himself. At the most minute sound, he jumped, wide-awake, hoping it was the lock turning in the front door. It never was though, and at four, the nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach drove him out of his chair. He couldn't just sit there. Sherlock wasn't all right. He couldn't be. There was no way he could be all right. This wasn't the pattern at all. There was supposed to be at least two days of the cocaine-induced mind-palace on the couch before he turned to the morphine. And that was only if an interesting case didn't turn up before then, which it usually did. Maybe he was out looking for a case? No, that was vigilante behaviour, far too altruistic for Sherlock.

Before he really knew what he was doing, he was outside. The cold night air woke him up further, and the thick fog made it feel like he was being soaked through. It felt as though he was breathing water. He turned up and down Baker Street. The street lamps created weird glowing orbs in the fog. He had a bad feeling about this, but Sherlock was out there, somewhere. And he had a very uncomfortable feeling that Sherlock needed him.

**A/N: **If you'd like to read the chapters for the scrapped case-fic, feel free to message me, but I won't be publishing them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Wake up, mate."

Someone was prodding him. He was very uncomfortable, but the prodding managed to push through and wake him up. The cabbie was looking at him, worried. Had he been trying to wake him up for long?

John straightened up, feeling incredibly stiff. His neck cracked a bit as he turned his head from side to side. His mouth tasted off, and as he grimaced, he could feel that some drool had dried from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. He quickly wiped it off and looked around in the pale morning light. Where was he? He didn't immediately recognise the park to his left, but it was vaguely familiar. As he turned, he realised that he was outside the Diogenes Club. Had he really asked to be brought here, or was this one of Mycroft's games?

"Right," he mumbled and reached for the car door. Why was he going out? This was pointless. Mycroft wasn't going to be at his club at this hour. But at the moment it had felt like the only place to start. London was a big place, and Sherlock could be anywhere.

"You all right?" asked the cabbie, looking genuinely concerned.

"Yeah." John thought for a moment. Was he all right? It didn't feel like it. He swallowed, and rubbed his face. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The cabbie didn't look convinced.

"Just… just take me to Baker Street," John croaked. It was beginning to come back to him. "221B."

He had walked far. He could feel it in his legs, his feet, his whole body. It wasn't just the cramped up way he had fallen asleep in the cab. He had walked down Baker Street to Oxford Street, where he had just started to wander aimlessly. After an hour or two, he had hailed a cab, and apparently asked to go to the Diogenes Club. In the cold light of the morning he was bound to say that his reasoning had not been the best last night, and that judging from behaviour, maybe it was himself he should worry about rather than Sherlock. It wasn't the first time he had left, after all. He always came back.

Though he couldn't have slept for more than half an hour, he felt strangely rested as he watched the waking city out of the window of the cab. What if Mycroft had been there? What if he'd met him, what would he have said? 'Sherlock didn't come home last night'? It wasn't as though it was a rare occurrence. He almost snorted with laughter at himself as the cab turned onto Baker Street. And yet, somewhere deep inside, he still felt the disquiet that had driven him out into the night.

He paid the cabbie a bit extra for the whole sleeping and drooling in the cab thing, and went up the stairs, looking for clues that could tell him whether or not Sherlock had gotten home or not. There was nothing from what he could tell, but then again, he wasn't the expert. He was trying to tell himself that Sherlock wasn't going to be in, to save himself the disappointment of finding the flat empty, but when he found the door unlocked, he couldn't help but feel that he had in fact gotten his hopes up.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, still fully dressed with coat and scarf. Had he just gotten in?

"Where were you?" he asked, eyeing John closely.

"Can't you deduce that?" John countered, not feeling really in the mood for Sherlock being _Sherlock _at the moment, in spite of the intense relief that was coursing through his body. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest and that he could breathe freely again for the first time in ages. The worry was slowly draining out of his stomach.

"Did you follow me?"

"I thought about it, but no, I didn't. I just… went for a night-time stroll."

After the initial relief had worn off, John felt desperately tired at first, but as he watched Sherlock, it became clear that everything was not fine. There were beads of sweat on his brow, and more of it had dried in his hair, which he now kept pushing back from his face almost compulsively. There was something strained about the mouth and he seemed to be flexing the muscles of his left arm almost unconsciously.

"What did you take?" John asked sharply, bracing himself. While he might not be able to tell normal Sherlock from Sherlock on cocaine, he was definitely able to tell Sherlock on morphine, and this was not it. This was something else.

"Cocaine," Sherlock said quickly. John didn't even bother hiding his disbelief at this response.

"Bullshit. It was barely twelve hours ago you _deduced_ that I couldn't tell when you were using. And I clearly tell that whatever you took isn't agreeing with you, so can you please tell me what it was?"

"Cocaine," Sherlock maintained.

"How much of it did you take?" John asked, for a moment entertaining the notion that it was in fact cocaine. For the years he had known him, Sherlock had never, ever upped his dosage, so this felt like a very unlikely path to follow.

"Don't worry about it."

John raised his eyebrows. "Are you kidding me? You go out, and then come back home hours later, in this state?"

"I'm not in a state!" Sherlock protested, but he could barely manage to keep up an insulted face. "In fact, I'm going to bed."

"If you go to bed now, I'm pretty sure I'll find you tomorrow choked on your own vomit."

"I'm going to bed."

John didn't say anything. He didn't protest or argue, he didn't even keep pressing about what it was he had taken. He fell back on the knowledge that he had adrenaline shots in the medicine cupboard if worst came to worst.

Fifteen minutes after he had gone to his room, John followed. Sherlock was passed out on the bed, still fully dressed. For a moment, John thought about leaving him that way, but ended up taking off the coat and scarf at least, and pulling a blanket over him. He then sat down on a chair by the end of the bed and put his feet up at the foot-end of the bed and fell asleep. If Sherlock started being sick he was sure to wake up. As he settled in, the heavy, rhythmic sound of Sherlock breathing filled the room and calmed him. He let the reassuring sound lull him into a heavy sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"I think I'll go out for a walk," said John after six hours of constant silence.

Sherlock had woken up just like normal the following day, showing few, if any, signs of whatever had happened last night. He was quiet, but that wasn't out of the ordinary, and he wasn't eating, but that wasn't out of the ordinary either. It was somewhat unusual for the quiet period and the fasting period to coincide, but it was not the first time. The only difference was a slightly diminished energy; he stayed on the couch sober, surprisingly enough.

"I'll join you," Sherlock said, much to John's astonishment. Not only was it the first words he had said all day, it was the first sign that he had even noticed John.

"You will?" John asked incredulous. He could not help but remember the puzzlement Sherlock had expressed at walking anywhere without an expressed goal in mind.

"Yes," Sherlock said resolutely and went into his room. Not three minutes later, he returned, now changed out of his dressing gown and instead wearing a proper shirt and trousers. "Shall we?"

He started off with his usual brisk pace, which forced John to almost jog a step or two every now and then, but after only a block or two, he slowed down considerably. At first John thought he was just adapting to a more leisurely pace, but found this so at odds with Sherlock's personality that he almost started to get worried. But it wasn't until Sherlock stumbled that the worry really got a hold of him. Sherlock didn't _stumble_. He saw every crack in the pavement, every rock and scrap piece of paper miles ahead. John felt his pulse picking up as he edged closer to Sherlock, who was still trudging on, but now as though he was walking against a very strong wind, or in deep water. His breathing was laboured, and every now and then he tried to stifle a cough.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked when he couldn't take it anymore.

Sherlock turned and looked at him as though he had forgotten he was there. That surprised face was not one he saw often on Sherlock and it really bothered him.

"You are clearly not fine," John concluded and tried to reach out to him, but Sherlock moved away, and kept walking. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything," he muttered.

John let him keep walking, but kept close behind, just a step behind him, close enough to catch him if it would come to that. He looked around to see how far they had gotten, wondering if he could maybe steer Sherlock around the block so that they could be heading back home again soon. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have no such plan. He was moving ahead with a very strange determination, but with every step, his breathing became louder, until he was actually panting from the effort. As they progressed, the stumbling became more frequent, and John felt compelled to try to grab a hold of him. As his hands touched the wool coat, Sherlock turned around with a feverish look in his eyes. The sweat from last night was back in his face, and he stared wide-eyed at John with a panic he'd never seen before.

"Sherlock, seriously, we need to get you home," John started, but Sherlock just stared at him. Before he really could figure out what happened, Sherlock had thrown at punch at him. It wasn't nearly as hard or as accurate as many of the other punches he had gotten during his time with Sherlock, but it was still enough to floor him when he was this unprepared for it.

John quickly scrambled back up, only to see the back of Sherlock, pathetically slowly making his get-away. He was stumbling, wheezing, and every now and then, he reached out to steady himself on the wall of the buildings lining the street. John ran up to him and grabbed his arm firmly.

"What the fuck is this? Why are you doing this?" John asked in exasperation. "Please, just come back home."

Sherlock just stared at him blankly, before his eyes drifted out of focus, and he suddenly slumped down. John felt panic welling up inside of him. Something was very, very wrong. Sherlock was still responsive, though, so John made the quick decision to bring him back home to Baker Street rather than to call an ambulance, hoping that he wasn't going to regret that decision. He had no idea what he'd been taking, but he knew that it wouldn't look good if it got out, whatever it was.

John waved down a cab, and half-dragged Sherlock inside. The cabbie needed some convincing to just drive them up the street, but agreed.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked, snapping his fingers by Sherlock's ear. His eyes were looking around widely, but he didn't seem to register anything.

"John," he wheezed. "It's not the drugs."

John didn't answer. He was pleased that he was still somewhat coherent, but that was about it.

When asked about it days later, John still couldn't explain exactly how he'd gotten Sherlock up the stairs and onto the sofa, but he did. For over an hour, he sat watching Sherlock's passed out body, wondering what he should do. Every different possibility flashed through his mind, but he couldn't decide on what route to take. He considered if he should call Mycroft, or Lestrade, but he wondered what either of them could really do.

Sherlock was passed out for over three hours. During this time, John did not move from the chair he had placed next to the sofa. He sat staring intently at Sherlock, taking his pulse and blood pressure at regular intervals, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He didn't even seem to have a fever, judging from the feel of his forehead.

As he sat at Sherlock's side, John didn't notice how it grew darker outside the windows, how afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night. There was a tight knot in his stomach as he watched how Sherlock's chest rise and fall with the ragged breaths he drew. He'd never seem anything like this. He had to call someone.

John got up and paced, flipping through the various contacts in his phone, but couldn't make his mind up about whom to call. He scrolled down to Mycroft, it seemed like the soundest choice. But as he turned to look at Sherlock, he found that he was awake, and watching with wide, startled eyes.

"I'm calling Mycroft," John said, trying to sound as professional as possible.

"No," said Sherlock weakly.

"Lestrade?" John tried.

"Don't call anyone. Don't get anyone," he said in a surprisingly imperious tone.

"But I have to get someone," John said helplessly.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just stared at John, clenching his jaws hard.

John lowered his phone. He just couldn't do it. He felt so terribly small and helpless, but he just couldn't go against Sherlock's express command. He felt like a weird pet, and he hated it.

"Will you at least drink something? Tea? Water?" John offered instead, putting his phone away very demonstratively.

Sherlock didn't answer. He just turned to look at the ceiling instead.

"Please?" John tried, but to no avail. By the glassy look in his eyes he wasn't sure whether he had heard him and chosen to ignore him, or if he was drifting off again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

It had been three days, and Sherlock had not been out of bed. John barely moved from his assigned seat at the other end of the bedroom, where he had been ordered at the end of the first day.

The first day had brought the twitching, which had not stopped, and did not stop even when he slept. It also brought delirium, though not as pronounced as later. It was in one of those bouts he had been told to always keep as far away as possible. Sherlock had gone on about contagion, and had worked himself up into quite a state. In an effort to appease him, and also to help him save his powers, John had agreed, and had kept his distance ever since.

The second day had increased the delirium, which was the hardest part for John. While it was painful to watch the twitching and the cramping, the long periods of restless sleep and the gasping breath, it was not as heart-breaking as hearing the friend he so admired, the genius, rambling nonsensically, with his eyes looking around without finding anything.

The third day, John began to realise that Sherlock was in fact dying. The realisation came upon him as he paced around the edge of the room, afraid to get too close and agitate him. He had had to steady himself on the windowsill, before he could make his way to the bathroom and break down in the shower. He didn't want to alarm either Sherlock or Mrs Hudson, to whom he had explained Sherlock's illness as the flu. Considering her reaction at thinking Sherlock had the flu, John was glad he hadn't told her the truth. In the shower he could let go, anyway. Mrs Hudson couldn't hear, and no one could see him. He ended up taking four showers in seven hours before he finally collapsed on the floor at the end of Sherlock's bed.

"John?"

He could not have slept very soundly, because at the sound of Sherlock voice, he got to his feet fast enough to make his head spin. It was the middle of the night according to the red light of the alarm clock. He moved as close to the end of the bed as he dared, trying to swallow the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat. Please, he told him self repeatedly, please don't let him ramble. Please, let him make sense today.

"I'm right here," John managed to rasp out.

Sherlock looked up at him, really looked at him, for the first time in days. The one hand he had on top of the blanket started twitching again, and he quickly withdrew it and put it out of view.

"Sherlock, please," John implored. "If you won't let me get anyone, then for the love of god, please let me examine you." Every medical bone in his body was itching to help his friend, to take his pulse, his temperature, anything, just a clue as to what he could do next.

He started towards the bed. Hopefully, if he were more coherent now maybe he would let him closer. But the look he got from Sherlock was enough to make him stop in his tracks. It was a look of furious anger and contempt that he had honestly not thought Sherlock capable of in this state. It made it all the more hurtful.

"If you can't keep your distance, you'll have to get out," Sherlock breathed.

John backed a step, before changing his mind and stepping closer again. The deep respect he had for Sherlock would in any other instance had made him follow his order, but fuck it, he was a doctor, and in this instance he _did_ know better.

"Yesterday you were raving about oysters, you'll have to forgive me, but I _will_ treat you. There is something very wrong with you, and I won't just sit by."

Sherlock turned to him again, with the same angry resentment as before. This time it didn't stop him.

"Out!" Sherlock gasped at his disobedience. The panicked fervour in his voice made John stop again, and take a step back. "Mrs Hudson!"

His wheezy, breathless voice could barely be heard to the other end of the room, let alone to another floor, and it was so pitiful that John couldn't do anything but to back away further, holding his hands up defensively.

"If you are to force medical attention on me, even though I already know what this is, and that it _will _kill me, please get me a doctor I have full confidence in."

"What?" John spluttered. At first, it was mainly the idea that Sherlock had already diagnosed himself that threw him off course, but soon the second comment started to sink in. Sherlock didn't have full confidence in him? While he perhaps didn't primarily think of himself as Sherlock's doctor, he had at least thought that it was part of their relationship. "You don't have confidence in me?"

"In your friendship, certainly," said Sherlock, relaxing a bit now that he could see that John wouldn't approach him again. "But facts are facts, John, and you are only a GP with mediocre qualifications. It's painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice."

Painful was one word you could use, John thought angrily. Other words he probably would have preferred were humiliating, cruel, revealing. He had never before felt so much like Sherlock's pet project. While their friendship had included a somewhat unequal aspect, where John was prone to hero-worship, and Sherlock enjoyed basking in said worship, John had always thought that his medical training was an aspect that made him, if not indispensible, then at least more evenly matched. To have it thrown in his face that this was just his own constructed justification made him sick to his stomach.

But as Sherlock was overcome by a coughing fit, the hurt vanished out of his mind. At least he had opened up for the possibility that John could get someone, someone who could help him. Just the thought that someone maybe could help him was enough to fill his chest with a painful hope. He chose to put Sherlock's comment about the disease being terminal down to delirium, even though it would be one of the few times he would have been wrong in a deduction.

"I'll get anyone you need. Fisher is supposed to be the best clinical pathologist in London, and I think Meek could – "

"No," Sherlock said suddenly, interrupting John's train of thought.

"But you need _someone_, and that's all there is to it! You can't ask me to just stand here and watch you die without either helping you myself or bringing someone else to help you. I just won't do it!" John tried to hide a sob in a cough, but Sherlock quickly saw straight through the cover, and his face softened somewhat.

"Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance?" he asked calmly, but still very quietly, as though his breath barely sufficed for talking. "Have you heard of melioidosis?"

John had to admit that he had not.

"Black Formosa corruption? Vietnamese tuberculosis? Tapanuli fever?"

To add insult to injury, these were not rhetorical questions. It was clear form his inflection that he needed John to actually answer aloud that he did not know of the diseases he numbered. John had never felt so useless.

"Do you have any money?" Sherlock asked suddenly, in a completely different tone.

"Well," John stuttered and started digging through his pockets. "Three pounds and… fifty p."

"Too little!" Sherlock sighed and fell back on the pillow. It started to dawn on John that he was raving again, and it felt like a knife turning in his belly.

"I have my card," he started slowly.

"No, not the card," sighed Sherlock and began shaking his head. "Put half of the coins in you right pocket, and half in the left. It will balance you so much better like that."

John didn't object. He did as he was asked without really thinking about it. He was far too used to doing just as Sherlock told him without asking why, even now, when he was just blabbering.

"Get me Harry Culverton."

It took a few seconds for John to realise that Sherlock was again coherent, and that he was actually giving him instructions. "Culverton?"

"He's a specialist of tropical diseases. Get him here, as fast as you can. You will tell him exactly how you left me. I just can't think why the entire ocean floor is not one solid mass of oysters; they're so prolific! Ah, I'm wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain… Where was I?"

John had to swallow repeatedly before he trusted himself to speak. "My directions for Culverton."

"My life depends on it," Sherlock said, suddenly with a newfound intensity. He was fighting for every breath, and the very act of speaking seemed to cause his great pain. "You'll have to drag him here. He has a grudge against me."

John was not surprised to learn this, only by how Sherlock knew it. He always seemed so oblivious to the antagonism he inspired. This Culverton must have made himself very clear indeed, and John was starting to dread asking him to help Sherlock.

"I suspected him once, not long ago, of killing his nephew. I suspected him, and he knew it, and now there's… bad feeling between us. But he's the only one that can save me. Please, just make sure he gets here!"

John found this melodramatic statement a bit unnerving, and couldn't judge whether it was delirium or an actual plea, something that made him feel very reluctant about leaving. He just didn't want to leave Sherlock in this state. He didn't know what he would find when he came back. He took a step towards the bed, reaching out to touch at least his ankle through the blankets. He didn't want to think of this as possibly the last time he would see Sherlock alive.

"Don't!" snapped Sherlock as he saw John reach out to touch him. "Get Culverton."

John let his hand fall to his side and looked at Sherlock, trying to imagine what he looked like when he wasn't dying. He tried to block out the thin, cracked lips, the hollow cheeks, the feverish glaze over his pale eyes, tried to ignore the twitching in his hands and face, which always got worse when he was agitated.

"I'll get him," he said, trying to keep a grip on himself.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

When faced with the dead street, John felt the panic really grip him. It was the middle of the night. Would this Culverton even see him at this hour? He fought the thought out of his head. Culverton would _have_ _to_ see him, no matter what time it was. Sherlock's life depended on it, which meant that John's life depended on it. The lack of cabs was not something he could handle with affirmations though. He turned around, looking wildly around for a sign of life. For a second he considered running all the way to Oxford Street, where he was sure to get a cab, but instead chose to hurry to Marylebone Road, which was closer, but most of the cabs were usually occupied.

While half-running on the pavement he fished his mobile out of his pocket and searched for the home address of Harry Culverton. His hands were shaking so hard he had to stop to force his thumb to type the right letters, and he had to steady himself against a wall to able to finish the words on the tiny keyboard. He pressed enter and let the phone do its search from his pocket as he kept running up the street as fast as he could, waving madly at whatever cab he saw.

It felt like an eternity before a cab stopped for him, and when the cabbie saw John's pained face, he clearly wanted to turn him down, but John was already inside and kept repeating "Lamont Road, Lamont Road" until the cabbie started driving.

He knew that it wouldn't be long before they reached Lamont Road, but he immediately started searching for the name of the disease Sherlock had mentioned. For a second he had thought that he had made up a disease just so that John wouldn't bother trying to treat him. But as he started reading about melioidosis he felt his heart sink in his chest. When untreated, it had a mortality rate approaching 90%. A weird, whimpering sound escaped him at this. It could be either acute or chronic, but John thought that there was little doubt about what Sherlock had gotten. But how on earth could he have contracted it?

That question wasn't one John liked the answer to, but he did have a pretty good idea. Sherlock abused intravenous drugs. In the light of that it didn't seem too odd that he might have contracted some obscure tropical disease. It did, however, not seem like Sherlock to use someone else's needle. He wouldn't be that stupid, or desperate, would he? This was exactly why he had decided to tolerate the drugs at home: that way he at least could make sure everything was done in a safe way.

The cab stopped, and as John tried to prepare what he would say, Sherlock's words came back to him: "tell him exactly how you left me". The image of Sherlock feverishly twitching, coughing, raving came into John's mind and another whimpering escaped him.

"I'll be right back; wait for me!" John commanded the driver, and ran up to the house, banging on hard on the front door.

He kept knocking until someone answered the door, a woman in a dressing gown and her grey hair standing at all angles as she examined the panicked man standing at her door.

"I need to see Dr Culverton. It's urgent," John gasped, wondering how he could possibly get someone Sherlock had antagonised to come to save him.

* * *

John wasn't exactly sure what happened next. The woman let him inside and showed him to a seat in the front room, where he reluctantly sat down, twisting his hands until the man came in. It might have taken five minutes, fifteen minutes, half an hour, John had no idea. His head felt numb as he was trying to take in the fact that Sherlock might not be alive when he returned.

"What's the matter?" asked the man who just come through the door. John startled a bit at the Australian accent, it felt out of place enough to actually shake him out of his stupor for a second.

"It's Sherlock Holmes," John began, feeling the lump return to his throat. "He's dying. He told me that you were the only one who could help."

"Dying?" asked Culverton, sitting down opposite John. He looked as though he didn't know whether or not to believe it. There could be no doubt that he knew Sherlock, though. He did not seem pleased to hear the name.

"Yes," John croaked, not wanting to confirm it. "He says it's melioidosis, and I think I'll have to agree with that diagnosis."

"Melioidosis?" asked Culverton, curiosity clearly piqued. "Yes, well, it seems that being an ass doesn't stop him from knowing who would be the right man for the job."

"You'll have to come with me right now, it's urgent. I left him raving with fever," John said, standing up to show exactly how urgent the situation was.

"Raving, eh? The great Sherlock Holmes…" Culverton mused almost sadistically, but he did stand up as though to join John.

"Yes, it's very serious," said John, trying to impress the gravity on Culverton. "I'm a medical man myself, and I… I just…"

John trailed off, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes in an inconspicuous way, but instead they just rolled down his cheeks. Culverton politely turned away, pretending as though he hadn't seen it.

"I won't act like Mr Holmes is someone I would likely go out into the night to save," Culverton began as he moved towards the door. "But melioidosis is one hell of a way to go. Wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"You'll come?" John asked, almost incredulous. He had thought it would have been harder to convince him, but it was clear that he was intending to agree as he reached to put his coat on over his dressing gown.

"Yes, I will," said Culverton begrudgingly. "I'll take my own car, though."

"221 B Baker Street," John said quickly, as he dodged out of the door and headed for the cab. There was nothing he wanted more now than to return home and find Sherlock still alive

* * *

**A/N: A shout-out to ACtravels, who was the first to recognise this as a rewrite of a canon Sherlock story!**

**Also, the next chapter will be the last!  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Somewhere along Park Lane, a horrible thought struck John. What if Culverton wasn't coming? What if he had just faked it to get rid of the weird, crying man that had turned up at his doorstep, woken him and his wife up and demanded to take him to see a sick man he disliked? The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed to John that Culverton had in fact gone to his car. But as the cab turned onto Baker Street he forced the thought out of his head. Culverton _had to_ come. There simply was no other way. He wouldn't return to Sherlock to only bring the news that he had failed at the one thing he had been asked to do.

The flat seemed darker than he remembered. The walls felt closer, the ceiling lower, the air stuffy; it felt like he was walking into the flat of a dying, if not already dead man.

"John?" Sherlock asked from his bedroom, and John could finally breathe properly again, for the first time since he had left him.

"I'm here," said John, throwing his jacket off as he went into Sherlock's bedroom, where the dark, stuffy feeling of the flat was even stronger. He wanted to touch him, to reassure him, but managed to keep himself away by making sure that he was always touching one of the walls.

"Is he coming?"

"Yes, he was just going to take his own car."

"Good."

Sherlock relaxed noticeably and took a deep, rattling breath. John wondered if Sherlock had ever looked as relieved by the news that he was coming as he was by the new of Culverton. The words he had said before, of not having enough confidence in John's medical capacity still stung, and in combination with the relief at the news that Culverton was coming, he felt something he tried hard to tell himself wasn't jealousy. It made him sick, the petty feeling of jealousy when faced with his best friends very imminent demise, but it was there, gnawing in tandem with the constant worry in the pit of his stomach.

The door downstairs opened, and hurried steps climbed the stairs.

"Hello?" asked Culverton's voice in the front room.

"In here," called John, pushing the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

Culverton came in and surveyed the scene before him, but his eyes soon fixed on Sherlock. John followed his eyes as he took note of the twitching hands, the chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, the gaunt face, the dark-circled eyes, the cracked, pale lips. He looked even worse than how John had left him, almost as though he was already dead.

"Get out," he breathed. John turned to Culverton, who turned to John. "John, get out."

It was a double insult. Not only was he not allowed in there as a doctor, he wasn't even allowed to stay as a friend. He looked from Sherlock to Culverton, and back again, but they both looked at him as though he didn't belong there at all. He heaved a deep sigh before resigning, and stalked out to the front room, where he sat down in his chair. He buried his face in his hands and wondered if time would move faster if he counted the seconds.

Five minutes passed, and John was one the verge of starting to pace, when his mobile buzzed in the pocked of his jacket, which was thrown over the back of the chair. He scrambled up and fumbled through the pockets as the phone kept vibrating insistently. At this hour it could only be Mycroft, and he didn't really know what to say to him, but if _he _called John, John must be able to tell him that Sherlock was dying, right? He was about to just decline the call when he realised that the name on the screen was Sherlock's. He turned to look at the closed bedroom door. What was going on?

He pressed the green key and held the phone up to his ear, breathlessly. The sounds were muffled, as though he had been pocket-dialled. He could hear talking, but couldn't make out the words.

"Sherlock?" he asked cautiously. He wasn't surprised when there was no reply. He was just about to hang up when there was the scratchy sound of fabric by the microphone of the phone, and suddenly everything he heard was a lot clearer.

"I hear that you've already figured out what's wrong with you?" Culverton asked. John assumed Sherlock had made some sort of non-verbal answer, because Culverton continued soon after. "Then I assume you've already figured out that if there's not much I can do, even if I felt inclined to do them."

John felt his mouth fall open.

"Terrible disease, isn't it?" Culverton went on. "Seems odd to contract it in London, though. You rarely encounter it outside Southeast Asia. Such bad luck, eh, Holmes? And the very disease my dear nephew happened to succumb to… Who knew that London was such a breeding ground for tropical diseases? What a singular coincidence."

"I know you did it," Sherlock said, a lot closer to the phone.

"Oh, you do, do you?"

"Yes, like I knew that you killed your nephew."

"Well, you couldn't prove that, and you won't be able to prove this either. You won't be able to do much more than suffer in just around an hours' time, judging by the way the tremor is increasing."

"Water," Sherlock gasped.

"Did you really think you could drag my name into that god-awful report and then come crawling to me the moment you're in trouble? What sort of a game would that be?"

John sat frozen in his chair, staring at the door, behind which was the madman he had shut in there with Sherlock, who was not in any state to defend himself.

"Give me the water. Please," Sherlock gasped again, sounding as though in terrible pain. John couldn't think straight.

Culverton snorted derisively, loud enough for John to hear through the door.

"Please, do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones. I'll forget it, I swear I will. Just cure me, and I'll forget it."

"Forget what?"

"Your nephew. You as good as admitted that it was you, but I'll forget all about it."

"Doesn't really matter now, does it? It's not like it's likely that you'll bounce off to Scotland Yard in your state, now is it? You're such a proud man, Sherlock Holmes. What a brain you've got in there… It's a good brain, I'll give you that. But this is what happens when a proud man meets someone who is smarter than him. He dies."

"I can't think. My mind is gone, for the love of god, please help me!"

John wanted to rush into the room, to do anything he could, but he just couldn't move. He sat staring at the door, his phone pressed to his ear.

"But now where could one possibly contract as rare a disease as this in London? Well, judging by the junkies you hang out with it's a wonder you didn't contract something sooner. It's amazing how little contamination is needed to spread something like this, especially if you inject it straight into the blood stream. A very wise life-style choice, Mr Holmes." He tut-tutted loudly.

"Just please give me something for the pain!"

"Yes, it is quite painful, isn't it? Just wait until the cramps really start acting up, then you'll know real pain."

"Water," Sherlock started, but then his voice just drifted off in an inaudible whisper.

"Anything else I can do for you, my friend? Any more little service I can grant a dying man?"

"Do you have a cigarette?"

John almost threw the phone away across the room in shock and surprise. It was not the delirious voice, nor the feeble whispers; it was Sherlock's normal voice. A bit hoarse perhaps, but completely lucid and with a hard edge to it. He'd been faking it. The whole thing. The dying.

Culverton didn't say anything for a long while.

"What is the meaning of this?" he finally said, clearly worried.

"Well, food and water is uncomfortable to be without for three days, but nicotine… Now, that is true suffering. Ah, here are some!"

John could hear him dig through a drawer, and a few seconds later light a cigarette. He was too baffled to think. The only thing that crossed his mind was that Mrs Hudson would be furious. She hated smoking.

"Much better," said Sherlock, exhaling loudly. He seemed to be completely at ease. "Do I hear the steps of a friend?"

John looked up and tried to listen before he realised that he was referring to him. He rushed over to the door and flung it open. What he saw was a very weird sight. Sherlock was half-lying down, propped up on his elbows, with a cigarette between his cracked lips, a very familiar satisfied glint in his eyes, which looked so very at odds with the dark circles and lank hair. Culverton looked as deeply shocked as John felt, but John tried to look as though he had been in on it. He was looking around himself for a way out, like a cornered animal. For a second he seemed to consider barging past John in the door, but thought better of it. John was relieved, because he felt so terribly unbalanced that he wasn't sure he would be able to react fast enough for any sort of physical advantage.

There was suddenly a loud noise, and the sound of several people climbing the stairs loudly, before Lestrade and a number of people burst through the door and swarmed into the flat.

"Damnit," Sherlock muttered and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Of course, they're late! It would have been too much to ask that they'd make an entrance when it would make dramatic sense…"

Culverton seemed to find his feet again, and ran towards Lestrade. "I don't know what happened, I was asked here as a doctor, he begged me to come here, and then he just started accusing me of all manner of things. I felt sorry for him, and he tricked me here. Now he'll keep pretending that he's found some killer, no doubt! He'll say anything that he can invent to corroborate his insane suspicions!"

"Oh that's right! John!" Sherlock exclaimed as though he had completely forgotten that John was in the room. "John, I owe you a thousand apologies. This, well, it got a bit out of hand, I am the first to admit."

John didn't even know how to begin to respond to this, the understatement of the year. He had been a wreck for four days. Out of hand, indeed… John raised his hand with the phone and waved it slightly in front of Culverton, whose face immediately dropped.

Lestrade stepped forwards and cuffed Culverton, who looked like he was trying to find some new defence, but kept drawing blanks.

"Will you need me back at the station immediately, or could I have a shower and get dressed first?" asked Sherlock comfortably and folded his hands in his lap.

"Take your time," answered Lestrade as he ushered Culverton and most of his division out of the flat. Anderson stayed long enough to comment what a shame it was that he wasn't dying, but was quickly reprimanded by Lestrade.

"Terribly sorry about this, John, I mean it," said Sherlock, as though he had been ten minutes late for an appointment. "You do understand how imperative it was that you was convinced that my condition was real, don't you?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" was all that John could say. "I thought you were dying. For real. I wasn't sure you'd be alive when I'd get back."

"Please don't be offended, but you are a terrible actor. I needed you to impress on Culverton the urgency of his visit, and this seemed to me the most straightforward way to make your performance as believable as possible. Also, it was very likely that I was being observed. Turned out I wasn't, but no harm in a job well done."

"A job well done?" John repeated, mostly to himself. "But… but you looked like you were dying."

Sherlock smirked a little, like he had been looking forward to the question. "Quite simple, really. No food or water really helps with the weariness, but then with contacts and some make-up, the look of a dying man is quite attainable for anyone. All it takes is some dedication to the role. I was very pleased with the cold sweat though. Vaseline! Who would've thought!"

"But you wouldn't let me near you," John started, not really knowing where he was going with it.

"Isn't it obvious? My god, John, how clouded have you become?"

"Clouded? Fuck you. I haven't slept properly in four days, I thought you were dying."

"Sentiment, John, sentiment. I've told you before; it won't help you. But in this instance I'm probably prepared to forgive you, since it only helped to perfect your performance. It was quite touching, actually."

John wasn't sure if he was being mocked. The words actually sounded sincere, but were delivered with the detachment of someone ordering a pizza.

"But it was obvious, wasn't it? Do you think I have no respect for your medical talents? How could you possibly not notice that a dying man, however weak, had no raised pulse or temperature? With a few yards' distance I might have been able to trick you, but you bought it surprisingly easily. If I'd failed to trick you, who could have brought Culverton here?"

John would never admit it, even to himself, but that compliment of his 'medical talents' actually did more to smooth this whole thing over than he would ever grant it.

The End

* * *

**A/N: So this was my take on "The Adventure of the Dying Detective" from _His Last Bow_, congratulations to those who had already figured it out.**

**I have to admit that I find it implausible and out of character for Sherlock to base a case on someone doing "'ze evil voice", and watching this sketch only made it worse: (look up That Mitchell and Webb Look: Evil voice)  
**

**Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for my next fic about John's life after the Fall: Earth Died Screaming, which I will start posting in a day or two.  
**


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